Whose Bourbon Is This? Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I sauntered past the vestibule,
And acquired myself a seat -
A rampant, fidgety chair that
Was sullied by the patrons.

I ordered two glasses
Of bourbon,

I drank the first glass
And my, oh, my
Such an emollient
Piece of heaven.

The mad clatter of the men
Seated in different places,
Alongside women of obscured
Facile affinities who
Wore either
Too much make up
Or too much arrogance.

I think they wore
Too much arrogance -
A kind that is loathsome.

Now the second glass
Of Bourbon
Dared to pry
As if relentlessly ranting
About how untouched
She was.

And I told this ecstatic Bourbon
Of sheer contemptuous sprightliness

“Why are you complaining?
I didn’t even touch you
Like a flame with these hands.”

And I looked all across
The establishment and noticed
A riot of dead bottles -
Chagrined,
Cloaked in the madness of the
Neon lights.

“See? All of them are dead
And used.
Why are you complaining?
You are an untouched glass
Of Bourbon.”

This glass of finicky prowess
Got me so sick to the gut
That I almost left
Without paying the bartender.

But then, I am no thief
Over spiteful things.

“Waiter, here. For the two glasses
Of bourbon.”

The waiter accepted
The rightful payment,
As I left the untouched glass of
Bourbon.

I smoked a cigarette
And left the place, desolate.
I am not a fool,
And I am not an imbecile
To not know of
The vestal bourbon’s
Fate.

I know another bar patron
Will drink that untouched glass
Of bourbon.

That’s not my
Conundrum anymore,
Is it?
I know it too well
Like a god of clairvoyant sight.

Another man would
Drink the innocence
Away from that bourbon.
And I don’t
Care.